


the stranger you know

by shakespearespaz



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: (but i only know american treats forgive me for being an american), Bad Cooking, Chameleon Arch (Doctor Who), Dubious Consent, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Kissing, Memory Loss, as per usual, but in that vein then, it's against their code, oh my god they were roommates, the doc eats so much sugar, they can't kill each other if one of them doesn't remember the other, things on fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23314630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakespearespaz/pseuds/shakespearespaz
Summary: The Doctor uses the chameleon arch to hide her identity, and the Master ends up her unwitting roommate. Feat. long walks on the beach, bed sharing, comfort, jealousy, dinner by candlelight, these two being Soft, 13 accidentally lighting things on fire, some kisses, pretty much everything the Doc ordered.(aka I tried to carefully measure all my different shippy ingredients but given the state of the world said screw it and dumped them all in)
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 158





	1. beginning

Her three pets must have been smarter than he guessed. They showed up on the front porch of his TARDIS, banging on the door. The Master was glad they’d caught him when they did, for he had just changed out of his robe and finished his morning tea.

The woman was in front, wearing her characteristic leather jacket—the only good fashion choice among any of her friends—long hair braided intricately, and concern knit across her brow.

“Yaz—” he said.

“Oh, so you do remember.”

“I remember every attempted murder.”

She didn’t react.

“Where’s the Doctor?” the Master continued, “They doesn’t usually let you lot go off on your own. They’ve lost too many of you that way.”

Yaz swallowed and chose her words carefully.

“She said you were an old friend. One of her oldest. She needs help and it’s—it’s beyond us.”

The Master paused and took in the three pleading faces in front of him. Disgusting.

“Did you miss the part where I tried to kill you all?”

The old man spoke up.

“Listen, I’ve had rows with plenty of friends. But there are some that after everything that’s happened, if they asked for help, after all these years, I’d come running. I guess we’re hoping that’s what she is to you.”

The Master pursed his lips and took a sudden step toward them. The two men stepped back but Yaz held her ground.

“You all are far too optimistic.”

He began to retreat back into the TARDIS. Yaz turned her head and gave Ryan a quick nod.

“Do it,” she said.

“Look, buddy, we didn’t want to do it this way.” Ryan pulled out a mess of rainbow colored circuitry from his jacket. “We know her TARDIS and we know yours. Can’t navigate without—well, I can’t remember what it’s called—but I know the shape.”

They had him. How they’d managed to get it out of his ship was something that warranted further investigation.

“You get it back after you take a look at her.”

Well, the only thing on the rest of his schedule for the day was laundry and plotting his revenge. He let the small humans lead him.

\--

She was in a small cottage by the sea. Sentimental and predictable. After a small garden path, there was a bright blue front door.

The house was a mess. Every inch was crammed with something—books, rocks, fossils, plants, a solar system mobile, glow in the dark stars on the ceiling, a toaster dissected on the counter, welding tools in the corner. A fireplace occupied one wall, above it an ancient clock on the mantle. In between windows on the opposite wall, there was a map of the world, marked with dots and stars and circles and plans.

She bounced up from the couch as they entered. Gone were her coat and boots and aggressive outfit of blue. Instead, she just wore an oversized jumper, with a rainbow splashed across the front, under a pair of ratty overalls, blue striped socks still on her feet but no shoes.

“Friends! Company! I’d put the kettle on, but I seem to have lost it.”

She moved towards the Master.

“You’re new. Hi, I’m Jane. Jane Smith.” She stretched out her hand, which was covered in paint and grease.

The Master looked to Yaz, who simply raised her eyebrows. He took her hand, squeezing it tight.

“Just call me…the Master.”

She gripped his hand tightly back and shook it enthusiastically. Then she ripped it away, turning back towards the disaster that was kitchen.

“Wait, I think I remember where I put the kettle!”

She clattered around in the cabinets, as the Yaz and Ryan and Graham circled the Master.

“We just woke up one morning, and she was like this,” Ryan said.

“Yeah,” chimed in Graham, “Calling herself Jane and not remembering us or herself or our travels.”

“We’ve managed to rule out alien pollen, viruses, head trauma, dementia, mind-body swap, mind control, mind wipe, alternate universes, allergic reactions—”

“No.” The Master stopped Yaz. “She did this to herself.”

“What?” Yaz didn’t believe him. “How? I mean, why?”

“It’s a TARDIS life hack that any self-respecting Time Lord knows how to do.” He watched his sworn enemy bounce around the kitchen, opening and slamming doors, talking to the kitchen as if it was—“She’s hiding from something. It'll hide her biosignature, everything. That coupled with her forcibly forgetting her identity makes it very hard to find her.”

But not impossible, he knew. Whatever she was running from must have scared her, but the problem with using the chameleon arch technique was it could leave you vulnerable, too vulnerable. 

“Well, then she can’t be left alone,” Yaz said, putting two and two together seconds after the Master did.

“Out,” The Master growled.

“What?” asked Graham.

“All of you. _Out.”_

“No, we’re not leaving you alone with her, mate,” Ryan argued.

“You lot suck at undercover work, full offense intended,” The Master told them, pivoting to stare them down, “And as her most recent traveling companions, you’re more likely to get her recognized.”

“And you’re not?” Yaz said, defensive.

“I’m a Time Lord. I fooled all of you and the Doctor. I will look after her. Now get out, before I make your murders more than attempted.”

Graham and Ryan slunk out the door. Yaz went to follow, but stopped.

“A couple of rules. Do not under any circumstances let her cook. Make her get outside every now and then. She’ll resist it, but it’ll make her feel better. Right now she’s limited to two cups of coffee a day. Don’t move her stuff or she might bite—”

“I can figure it out,” he snapped, “I knew her long before any of you.”

Yaz stood there for a moment.

“Doc—” she called to the kitchen, “Jane?”

The Doctor stuck her blonde head up from behind the counter.

“Are you alright with a roommate?”

She stood, using the counter to push herself up.

“A roommate? You mean like a friend?”

Yaz looked to the Master, whose expression was unreadable.

“Yeah,” she said slowly, “Like a friend.”

She emphasized the last word, looking straight into the Master’s dark eyes. Her meaning was clear. _Don’t hurt my friend._

With one last longing look, she turned and left with the others.

As soon as the front door latched shut, the Master moved to the window. He pushed aside the curtain to watch them disappear down the road. Once they were out of sight, he sprang into action.

She was still waist deep in the kitchen cabinets, searching for something. He closed the distance between them with a vengeance.

“Alright, _Doctor,_ it’s just you and me.”

She extracted herself from the cabinets with a clatter, folding her arms on the counter and peering up at him. This was it. They’d left her here in his grasp, and whether this was real or another ruse of hers, he was going to determine any way he could—

“Oh, oh, that! Can you hand me that!”

She wasn’t looking at him, as she pointed past him urgently.

“I—uh—this?”

He gestured at the coat rack. She nodded, and he began to pick up the entire rack.

“No, no, no, just the umbrella,” she clarified.

He handed it to her. She turned and disappeared back into the cupboard.

“As I was saying,” he started again, his voice low and guttural, “We have unfinished business, so if this is—are you even listening to me?”

The clanging of pots told him he was not being listened to. He knelt to the floor, grabbing the back of her overalls and trying to yank her back out.

“Listen—listen…listen to me!”

He finally managed pull her out of the black hole of the bottom cupboard, twisting her around to face him, her back against the wood cabinets. She looked confused, wary at being dragged back into the light.

He leaned in, baring his teeth.

“Listen, do you who I am?”

Her eyes darted around his face, and he was certain that she was going to give in at any moment. Instead, she just broke into a grin.

“So I didn’t find the kettle, but I did find something far better.” She pulled it out from behind her triumphantly, “The waffle iron!”

He hesitated. He could press on and risk alienating this Jane who was not his Doctor but who was. Or he could let her and her antics stand for the time being. If she really didn’t know who he is was, then possibilities were endless.

He decided it wouldn’t hurt to take his time. This could be fun.

\--

The Doctor hadn’t stopped moving since he arrived. She couldn’t sit down or sit still for more than a few moments. She’d situate herself in the kitchen to work on a project, and he would think that it would occupy her for long enough, but then he’d turn to find her on her feet again, distracted by a book or the garden or taking apart another household appliance.

That evening he’d already had enough. He planted himself on the couch.

“Doctor—Jane,” he ordered, “Sit.”

“Let me just finish this,” she said through gritted teeth, pliers buried deep in the toaster.

He heard the spark and twisted his head to look at her. The toaster was smoking. He was off the couch in an instant and in the kitchen. He peeled her hands off of the toaster.

“Hey,” she protested, “Hey!”

“I can’t let you burn the house down, as entertaining as that would be.”

He took the toaster to the front door, kicking the door open with his foot and setting the toaster outside to cool off overnight. She was standing inside, arms crossed and brow furrowed.

“I wasn’t done with that.”

There was a coldness in her eyes that caught him off guard.

“You can finish it tomorrow,” he reasoned, “You’ve given yourself all the time in the world.”

He went to pull her towards the couch by her elbow, but stopped himself before him touched her. He gestured vaguely towards the television.

“Come on,” he continued, “Let’s distract ourselves. Watch something funny, like a true crime documentary.”

He crossed back to the sofa, leaving her by the door. As he sank into the cushions and fished around for the remote, he began to doubt. What would he do if she just wouldn’t listen to him? The Doctor never had, and even with their memory gone, they did what they wanted. This was an impossible task, and it filled him with a sudden rage towards her and her friends that they would trap him here—

“Want some?”

She sank into the cushions next to him. In her hands, she held a giant tub of ice cream, white with rainbow sprinkles in it. She was eating straight out of the container with a spoon. The anger dissipated.

“What flavor?”

“Birthday cake.”

He made a face of disgust.

“Ugh.”

“More for me then,” she responded nonchalantly as she leaned back against a pillow. He watched her settle in and continue to shovel ice cream in her face.

“Jane,” he finally asked, “Who am I?”

“A friend,” she answered, her mouth full, “Well, friend of my friends.”

The Master shook his head.

“No, why am I here?” he prodded.

“Yaz said you needed a roommate. She said I needed one too.”

“And you don’t care about my history? You don’t even know me.” He leaned over threateningly and tried to ignore the aggressive smell of sugar and vanilla. “I could be a serial killer.”

He watched her small face look up at him, anticipating a hint of fear in her eyes. He wondered if now was the time to make his move. Her mates were stupid. They thought they could hold his ship over his head, but he could hold the helpless Doctor over theirs.

Except there wasn’t any fear in her eyes, just an openness and trust that he hadn’t seen since, well, since O. Their history burned through him, but so did the realization that anything he did to hurt her now wouldn’t mean anything.

“Maybe you are,” she countered, “But I believe that more people are good than aren’t. I think the chances are very, very low that you’ve murdered someone.”

She smiled at him, wide and brilliant, and shoved another spoonful of ice cream into her face.

His time here was either going to really help or really hurt. He wasn’t sure who it would help or hurt more.

“So,” she exclaimed, “What are we watching? I vote no true crime, but maybe Planet Earth?”

He shook his head.

“I’d rather watch paint dry. I saw some monster truck demolition derbies on there. That sounds peaceful.”

“Yeah, no, not happening,” she shut him down, “Oh, I know!”

She reached for the remote and started navigating her way.

“It has science for me and explosions for you. Mythbusters!”

It was a tenuous, tolerable compromise.


	2. middle

He was up before her the next morning, sorting through the mess in the kitchen to find coffee and food. He dumped all the dirty dishes in the sink and relocated her engineering projects to one half of the kitchen table. He was about to search the cabinets for something edible when she finally stirred, like a monster risen from a deep slumber. She stood in the doorway in her flannel rainbow pajamas, blonde hair messy in the morning light.

“Mornin’.”

Her voice was hoarse. He tried not to stare, as she rubbed her eyes and squinted at him.

“What’s for breakfast?”

“What?” he asked, thinking he’d misheard her.

“Yaz said you’d make me breakfast. Something about highly advanced metabolism needing more than pop tarts...”

She looked up at him with those sleepy eyes, but he refused to cave.

“No, _no,_ ” he resisted, “I am not making you breakfast. You’re an ancient—you’re an _adult._ You can make your own breakfast.”

She moved to take a seat at the table.

“I was thinking…fried egg sandwich?”

He sighed.

Twenty minutes later he was sitting down to eat his own sandwich, as she sat staring up at him, only crumbs left on her plate. She shoved herself off her perch and headed towards the cupboard.

“And to finish it off—a biscuit!”

“What?”

“Breakfast dessert?” She was looking at him like he was stupid, but which he didn’t much enjoy. “Every meal gets dessert. I don’t make the rules!”

“It’s a wonder you’re alive,” he muttered into the next bite of sandwich.

“More coffee?” she asked, holding up the pot.

“Yes—I mean, no!” He inhaled the last bit of his breakfast and scrambled to his feet. “You’ve had your two cups.”

He took the coffee pot away from her as she made a small pout.

“No, that face is not allowed," he lectured, pointing a finger in her pathetic face.

“It’s only one more cup!”

She lunged for the pot. He braced himself against the counter and stretched to shove it into a cupboard. He could just barely reach the top shelf, and she couldn’t.

“No,” he explained as he fought her off with his inch of height difference, “It’s not! Suddenly, it’s three pots later, and we’re dueling with knives in a back alley somewhere.”

“You talk as if this has happened,” she challenged, “Well, you can’t stop me from just eating the grounds.”

She went to rip open the bag of coffee, but he beat her to it. The bag joined the pot in the cabinet.

“I can’t believe I’m the adult in this situation,” he whined, exasperated.

She jumped for the cabinet, but couldn’t quite get it open. She let out a loud sigh and leaned against the counter, defeated. He watched with a smirk.

“Glad you’re enjoying this,” she mumbled.

He dropped the smirk and joined her, their shoulders almost touching.

“Now that you’re fed and caffeinated, what are your plans for today?” he asked mockingly, “Saving puppies?”

She scrunched her face up, thinking.

“Nah, I’ve got to make progress on the particle accelerator.”

She practically bounded towards the back door.

“What?”

“Oh, I’m working on my own particle accelerator. It’s out back, come on.”

The front of the house may have been quaint and postcard perfect, but the back looked like a junkyard. The Master didn’t know why any mess of the Doctor’s surprised him anymore.

“Dare I ask…what is all this?”

The Doctor started pointing at things.

“That’s a seismograph. That—aw, that’s never going to work. But this…” She stopped to proudly take in what looked like bad plumbing. “Is going to be a particle accelerator!”

“Sure,” he replied, looking at the twisted, welded mess.

He already had a headache. She seemed like she would have plenty to entertain herself for the morning.

“I’m—I’m going to inside,” he told her, “You have fun. Don’t set anything on fire.”

“Sure, sure,” she replied, already firing up her welding torch, disinterested.

The Master had plans for the morning. He’d managed to glimpse the massive claw footed tub in her bathroom, and he figured he deserved some well-earned rest and recovery from the traumatizing past day.

He wondered if she had any ginger beer in the house.

\--

After lunch, he forced her to take a walk on the beach. It was hard reasoning with a woman wielding a welding torch, but finally he’d convinced her that after a short break she could return immediately to her particle accelerator.

God, having this much responsibility disgusted him. She was absolutely going to owe him more than one after all this was over.

The beach was horrendously cold. It was brutal and windy, which kept messing up his recently cleaned and styled hair. The Doctor, however, had already forgotten how much she didn’t want to go on a walk. While he folded his arms together and hunched over, she ran out ahead, her boots splashing in the surf, her unbuttoned dark blue pea coat and rainbow scarf swirling behind her.

She came running back to him.

“How lucky are we,” she said, breathless, hair curling from the sea salt spray, “that we get to live this close to the ocean.”

She linked her arm in his before he could protest. He was grateful for the warmth, although he was unsure about the contact. Maybe a part of him felt guilty, being this close to her when she didn’t know who he was. Maybe he was just trying to ignore how her small hand in the crook of his elbow both soothed him and set his hearts racing.

“So, Master,” she said, “How do you know my friends?”

“Funnily enough,” he responded in a not quite lie, “Through another friend.”

“Friends knowing friends knowing friends,” she pondered, “It’s a small world.”

She turned her head to the ocean. He watched her watch the waves crash on the dark sand.

“And a beautiful one,” she breathed.

He didn’t want to do this, be forced to share in her relentless optimism. He cut straight to the point.

“Why are you here, Jane?”

She pressed her lips together, not responding.

“Why—” he began again.

“Do you mean here in this cottage?”

Her brilliant hazel eyes found him as she asked for clarification. He wondered if part of her knew, knew that this was all fake.

“Yes. What else would I mean?” he prodded.

Her eyes darted across his face, before finally returning forward.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m here, because this is my home.”

“Why can’t you leave the house?” he pushed.

“Yaz says it’s because I’m sick.”

“Are you?”

She shrugged.

“I feel fine.”

She trailed off, with only the waves crashing in the background.

“What do remember before you came here?” he continued, not able to hide the doubt in his voice.

She brought their slow pace to a halt and looked up at him. Her intelligent eyes narrowed.

“My life,” she responded sternly, “I remember my entire life. I know who I am. I’m Jane Smith, and I don’t need you questioning me!”

She was so defensive that he could help but crack a smile.

“You sure about that?” he said, testing.

“Yes.”

She unlinked her arm from his and took a hasty step back.

“You’re the person I don’t know. You’re the _stranger._ ”

She spit it out, her teeth bared and lips curling around that foul final word. She marched past him in huff and up off the beach, back towards the house.

“If you’re sick,” he called after her, “then maybe you should see a _doctor_.”

She froze, turning slowly back to him, eyes wide. He wondered for a moment if that was all it took.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she barked back at him.

She disappeared over the bank, leaving him in the surf, alone. The interaction had gotten out of hand, gone into territory he never wanted. The way she called him _stranger_ was burned into his memory. Even with her side of their history erased, she’d still hate him.

He never should have come.

\--

He meant to leave. He stormed back to the cottage that betrayed everything he stood for, intent on grabbing his toothbrush and leaving her to the mercy of whatever was chasing her. He even meant to hurt her, do something that would make her question ever letting a stranger into her life.

The moment he barreled through the front door though, he stopped. She was hunched over in front of the fire, her small frame silhouetted against the flames.

“Please don’t leave,” she asked without looking up, “Everyone always leaves me.”

She didn’t know how true that statement really was.

He brought his hand to his forehead, trying to process this. They owed each other nothing and yet so much, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that with all else stripped away, it was just his _friend_ sitting vulnerable in the middle of the rug _,_ his friend with fire burning through their veins, his friend with endless wonder and compassion for all things in this universe, his friend who was just as alone as he was.

He couldn’t bear to look at her, so he reexamined the small space she called her own. The map stopped him.

“What is this?” he asked, taking a few steps towards the mess of pins and stars.

She scrambled to her feet.

“It’s everywhere I want to go.”

She joined him, facing the map, shoulders still a good half foot apart. He reached out to run a hand along worn paper, tracing the marks she’d made there, in all colors of the rainbow.

“How much have you seen so far?” he asked.

“Not enough,” she said quietly.

He chuckled to himself, which earned a glaring look from her. 

“What are you waiting for?”

She turned, squaring her shoulders with his.

“I told you, I can’t leave this house. Not until I’m better.”

She was serious, although he could see how much she disliked her own answer.

“And when will you be better?”

She shook her head.

“Stop asking me these questions. I don’t know. Somethings you just don’t know, alright!”

“Alright,” he conceded, an offering of peace.

She closed her eyes briefly and let out a deep breath he didn’t know she’d been holding.

“Come on. I should probably start dinner.”

She managed to get one step towards the kitchen before he realized.

“Oh no, no, no.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head and blocked her path. “You don’t cook. Sorry, I don’t make the rules!”

“I know how to make boxed mac and cheese,” she protested, “That’s all I was going to do!”

The Master shook his head.

“Here’s what I propose: I will make you a proper mac and cheese, from scratch. And you can sit and watch and not touch anything and pretend you don’t exist.”

She raised her chin defiantly.

“Yes, Master, you can absolutely make a gourmet dinner for me while I do nothing. With one small change: I _will_ heckle, without remorse.”

She probably didn’t understand where his wide, maniacal grin came from. It didn’t matter. He knew. His Doctor was still in there somewhere.

\--

“This is _good_ ,” she said, her mouth full of pasta and cheese, “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

“Cooking is so easy,” he replied with disdain, “You literally just follow the instructions.”

She didn’t respond, for she was scraping the last pieces from her plate into her mouth. She was completely lacking in any and all table manners, but it was just them, and part of him had to admit it was endearing. After finishing her meal, she pulled her feet up onto the chair with her, wrapping her arms around them.

“You still didn’t answer my question,” she stated across the table filled with wine in fancy stem glasses and flickering candles, “Where’d you learn to cook?”

“It’s just something you pick up along the way. Like golf or dismemberment.”

Her confused reaction was limited. Another thought lit up her distracted face.

“I nearly forgot! Dessert! We have more custard creams or ice cream or—”

He reached out a hand to tell her stay put.

“Just…just wait. It’s in the oven.”

She relaxed, but he could tell she was excited. She licked her lips as a slight smile decorated her magnetic face. Finally, the kitchen timer dinged. He went to prepare them. He could hear her shifting around in her chair, trying to see what he was doing in the kitchen. She’d just have to be patient for once in her long life. When they were ready, he turned around, a plate in each hand.

“Ta da!” he announced, “Lava cakes!”

He set one in front of her and took his place across from her at the table. She leaned forward and sniffed it.

“It’s chocolate,” he explained, “There’s molten chocolate inside.”

“Ahhh,” she said, seeming to understand, an eyebrow arching upward, “You mean magma cakes. It’s magma when it’s still inside the earth.”

She used her finger to poke the cake open.

“And lava when it’s outside the earth!” she said jubilantly, “Ow!”

“Careful, it’s hot,” the Master warned, “Use a fork, Doc—Jane.”

She took a bite and let her eye flutter close in satisfaction. 

“Oh, this is ace.”

He managed to tear his eyes away from her to take a few bites out of his. When he looked back, her plate was empty. She scraped the last bit of chocolate off the plate with her finger and licked it. He was glad she was too preoccupied with the chocolate to notice him staring.

She spoke without warning.

“Why do you call me Doctor?”

Dark eyes met his in the dim light. He cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“Every now and then you accidentally start to call me Doctor.”

His cake suddenly fascinated him, as he searched for an answer.

“You—” he began, “You remind me of someone I know. She was a doctor.”

“Hmm.”

She didn’t look convinced.

“Did you like her? Was she your friend?”

They had been dancing so dangerously near to the truth during their time together, getting tantalizingly close before darting away from it. It hadn’t burned them yet.

“I used to like her. Maybe even love her.”

“Used to? What happened?”

Her eyes were so clear, so innocent. In this state, she was finally free from all the blood and pain, everything that tormented her, free from him. It wasn’t fair, and yet somehow was.

“We had a falling out,” he responded curtly, “It happens.”

His flat response didn’t stop her.

“What was she like?”

“She was…annoying.”

She smirked at that, but he ignored it and continued.

“And mutable. We both were—both are—always changing. But some things never changed. She was curious and mischievous, and we got along well for that. But, god, she was so _good_. So aggressively, disgustingly good.” His sneered at that. “The world would grind her down to her lowest low, throw her out with the garbage, and she’d not only survive, she’d find hope in it. She was exhausting.” He let his eyes flutter close before forcing them open again. “Oh, she wasn’t perfect. Far from it. But she never stopped _loving_ every goddamn thing that crawled into her life. She’d love everything except—”

He didn’t realize his cheeks were wet until he stopped talking. She stood suddenly, concern on her face.

“You’re crying,” she stated awkwardly.

She reached across the table, her intent unclear. It didn’t matter because she never got that far. Her outstretched arm collided with the candlesticks, knocking them to the tablecloth. Suddenly, there were large, large flames.

The Master stood immediately, grasping the end of the tablecloth to fold it over on itself. She did the same, plates clattering to floor as they both attempted to smother the fire.

“Dammit, Doctor! What—why!!”

He couldn’t even form a proper sentence in his frustration. It had nothing to do with the streaks still on his cheeks his told himself.

Finally, the fire was extinguished. The tablecloth still smoked slowly, the room dark without candles in the night.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she muttered.

She reached down to pick up some of the plates.

“Stop,” he snapped at her, “Just leave it. I’ll clean it up.”

“No, I can help—”

“You’ve helped enough,” he shot at her, “Just go to bed.”

He knelt down to gather the plates off the floor. He refused to look up until her heard her bedroom door slam. He hadn’t been lying. She was exhausting, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep for a thousand years and deny that she had ever existed.


	3. end

The Master was woken from his slumber sometime in the early hours of the morning. She only had one bedroom and one bed, something that her incompetent crew had failed to mention, and so he rolled over from his uncomfortable perch on the sofa.

It sounded like someone had knocked something over, a clattering possibly in her room. He sat up to listen better, suddenly very wide awake. Another noise, this one a light metallic scraping.

It was definitely coming from her room.

Fear seized at him. How could they have found her already? He had one job, and he had failed at it.

He flung himself to his feet and closed the distance to her bedroom door. His hand grasped the doorknob, and he slowly pushed the door open, cautious.

There was light in her room.

It was under a blanket, to the side of the bed. A corner of the blanket had been latched into the window to make a fort. He relaxed, chastising himself for getting so worked up. He should have guessed. He knelt next to the blanket and flipped the edge of it up.

“Hey!”

The Doctor looked up guilty and caught, crouched under her blanket fort in her rainbow pajamas. She had what he assumed were all the utensils in the house spread out in front of her.

“What in the name of seven systems are you doing?” he whispered aggressively.

“Planning.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to solder anything until morning,” she reassured him.

The Master could feel another headache starting.

“I appreciate a good plan, Doc. But why? Why now?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said quietly.

There was nothing like being woken up in the middle of the night to strip away all of your inhibitions, and the Master fought hard to control the anger. Her eyes stared straight into him though, nearly black in the low light. He didn’t like what he saw there. Pain.

“You—you couldn’t sleep?” he repeated.

She swallowed and nodded.

“Just—just let me stay up and work on this,” she pleaded, “I won’t wake you again, I swear!”

He sighed and went to unhook the blanket from the window. The instant his hand came up, she flinched. He stopped.

“Please,” she begged, “Let me stay awake.”

Why was there was much fear in her eyes? Why was she afraid to sleep? Why was she hiding under the blanket and thinking she was going to get in trouble like a child—

Oh, he was an _idiot_.

“Jane,” he said with all the softness he could muster, “How long has it been since you slept?”

“If I sleep,” she confessed quickly, “then I dream about horrible things. I die over and over and over again. I know it’s not but it feels very—so very—”

“Real,” he finished.

She nodded, eyes cast downward.

He realized how fried her fine mind must really be. Layers of repressed memories, this chameleon arch only the latest. How many times had she been a child? How many times had she died a child? No wonder she stared up at him so frightened. No wonder Jane was so childlike. No wonder it all came flooding back when she was asleep, her unconscious mind finally unguarded against the tsunami inside.

He shook his head.

“You don’t have to sleep. But let’s not hide in here. You don’t hide, it’s not what you do.”

“How would you know?”

“Just trust me.”

He offered her his hand. For a moment he was afraid she wouldn’t take it, that those memories had come rushing back in the dark of night as well. But all she gave him was a nervous smile, the corner of her mouth twisting up in a way that he was finding more and more mesmerizing.

She took his hand.

He helped her stand, disassembling the fort as they did so.

“Come on, let’s go to bed.”

She started to protest.

“Again, you don’t have to sleep. But just, just rest your eyes, alright?”

She nodded and climbed slowly back into bed. He followed, wrapping his arm around her waist, and pulling her into him. He heard her let out a heavy breath and felt her body relax. He hadn’t realized this regeneration was so small. Iron built in the heart of supernovas ran through her veins, but she was still flesh and blood at the end of the day. He worried if he squeezed too hard he might snap her in two.

“Don’t worry, you won’t hurt me,” she mumbled, as if she had read his mind.

He shifted his arm in tighter around her and the opposite feeling took over. He was going to lock his arms around her and never let go. If this was all some cruel trick the universe was playing on him, then it had still managed to give him exactly what he wanted.

He waited. Finally, he could feel her breath turn shallow and slow against his hand. He pressed his forehead against the nape of her neck, right where soft hair met warm skin. He closed his eyes.

He didn’t sleep. He only listened to her gentle snores until the golden light of dawn crept back through her window.

\--

“How do you know how many eggs to put in?”

He looked up at her in disbelief. She was perched on the kitchen counter, still in her pajamas. He’d found an apron stuffed in a drawer and was in the process of teaching her how to make waffles. Well, more like he was doing all the work, and she was sitting there being decidedly unhelpful.

“It says in the recipe.”

He held out the cookbook.

“Oh,” she said with genuine surprise, “So it does.”

He cracked an egg into the bowl and could feel her watching him. Her gaze was very direct.

“Tell me,” he said to distract her, “When you’re building whatever nonsense it is you’re building, don’t you follow instructions?”

“No, not really,” she replied, scrunching up her face as she thought about it, “Just trial and error.”

No wonder she was terrible at cooking.

“Here,” he offered, “Try cracking the egg.”

“I’m not an idiot,” she objected, although she still took the egg, “I know how to crack an egg.”

She slammed the egg against the side of bowl violently. Half of the egg ended up in the bowl, the other half decorated his apron. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in.

“ _Jane_ —”

“Meant to do that,” she justified quickly.

“Oh, well, that makes it worse,” he notified her.

Turnabout was fair play. He dipped his hand in the flour and threw a small handful at her. He mostly missed, except for a nice splat spreading from her ear to her cheek to her nose. Shocked eyes stared at him.

It took him a moment to realize what he’d started.

She reached over and grabbed the slightly damp dish towel sitting on the counter. She snapped it at him, just enough to hurt a little. This would only continue to escalate.

He grabbed the towel when she went to smack him again.

“Hey,” he interjected, “Hey, come here.”

She hesitated, and he saw the battle readiness in her eyes. He also saw the moment she decided to let the towel go. He took it from her, raising it to her face. He gently wiped away the flour from her cheek and nose. She watched him, unmoving, glued to her spot on the counter. When he was finished, he couldn't help it. He bopped her on the noise. She blinked at him. 

Then she broke into a laugh.

"What?"

“That’s better. Sorry,” he said, before turning back to the bowl.

He added the vanilla and salt before handing it to her.

“Here, stir it all together.”

She took it and did so. He went to wipe down the counter, and when he turned back she was licking the batter from the spoon.

“Don’t, there’s raw—” he started, but then stopped himself. Did it really matter?

He stuck out his hand and she returned the bowl to him. She watched him as he poured the batter into the waffle iron.

“What do you do now?” she asked, and he couldn’t be more glad to hear her voice again.

“You just watch it and make sure it doesn’t burn. Which I know is the hardest part for you.”

She opened her eyes wide and locked the waffle-to-be in a death stare. God, she was ridiculous. He felt genuine laughter bubble up inside him, not to be cruel or mocking, just a strange feeling inside him, a rare contentment that threatened to spill over and out—

There was a pounding on the door.

They both twisted their head at the sound. The feeling in his gut instantly soured.

“Jane,” he ordered, “Go to the back bedroom.”

“No,” she argued, “I will not.”

“I don’t know who it is—go, _now_.”

“Oh, wait,” she exclaimed, twisting around as if the answer were near, “What day is it? Oh, shoot, it’s probably Henry. We were going to go on a picnic.”

“You—” he stuttered, “Henry—picnic—who?”

She pushed herself off the counter.

“He works at the shop in town,” she explained, “Go answer the door. I have to get dressed!”

She darted into the bedroom and shut the door.

The Master did a quick survey of the kitchen for any weapons, finally settling on a small, sharp knife and slipping it into his pocket. He went to answer the door.

He didn’t much care for what he found on the other side. Henry, if that was even his real name, was a tall young man, with cheekbones and perfectly coiffed hair and straight, shiny teeth. He hated him already.

“Hi.” He smiled a perfect smile. “Is Jane in?”

“Who are you?”

“Oh, I nearly forgot my manners.” He extended a confident hand. “I’m Henry.”

The Master ignored his hand. Still, he plastered a fake grin on his face and swung the door open.

“Well, come in, Henry.”

Henry stepped inside, looking around at the mess.

“It looks like her,” he seemed to joke, “Messy but quaint.”

The Master didn’t answer, already prickly at this stranger’s familiarity with the Doctor.

“So, a picnic,” the Master said flatly, “Where are you going to go?”

“Oh, just down the beach a ways. Jane can’t go very far.” He leaned in and whispered, “It’s for her own health.”

Instead of decking him, the Master took a deep breath in and shoved his hand into his pocket, fiddling with the knife he had stashed there.

“And what are your intentions with this picnic, Henry?”

He looked caught off guard, his face darkening for a moment. It lightened into a mocking smile.

“Who are you? Her father?”

The Master let out a quick breath and matched the stranger’s vaguely threatening grin.

“I’m her friend. Her _best_ friend.” He stepped in closely, menacing despite the height difference. “And if you hurt her in any way—”

Henry chuckled at the small, angry man before him.

“How very _chivalrous_. What century do you think this is?” Henry took a step back and put his hands up to indicate he was through. “I think I’ll wait outside for Jane.”

The Master grasped the knife in his pocket, hovering as the man strode towards the door. Henry paused as he reached the doorway.

“Oh,” he said lightly, turning back to the Master fuming in the entryway, “And don’t hurt yourself with that knife.”

Henry made cold, knowing eye contact with him.

“You might need a doctor.”

The Master could’ve sworn he winked before closing the door. The bedroom door opened simultaneously, and the Doctor came flying out in her usual overalls and striped socks.

“Was that him?”

She hurried towards the door, but the alarms going off in the Master’s brain couldn’t decide on a course of action. His arm shot out instinctually, and he managed to catch her before she reached the front door.

“Don’t go.”

“What?”

He pulled her into him, and somehow this felt so much closer, so much more intimate than they’d been so far. It was his turn to plead, but he couldn’t use the words he wanted to.

“He—he knows—”

“Know what?”

“Knows who—knows you’re sick—”

“Yes, I told him.”

“No, not like that!”

She started to pull away, but he just drew her in closer, nails digging into her arm.

“Please, Jane, _please_ , don’t go,” he persuaded through gritted teeth, “He is one of the few bad ones, I’m telling you.”

“No, he’s not.” She sounded offended. “He’s just Henry. Just a friend.”

He didn’t know how to respond, the urgency building as he thought of the man who clearly knew something waiting on the other side of that door like a spring loaded trap. She was about to unwittingly walk right into his web, he knew.

“He’s not—”

“Let go of me,” she interrupted, “I can take care of myself.”

She yanked her arm out of his grip. He had to keep her here.

“You don’t know who you are,” he argued forcefully, “You don’t know your past. _Our_ past.”

It struck him like an anvil falling from the sky. She didn’t know their past. He had another way to stop her. He closed the distance between them, hands finding the sides of her small face, pulling her back into him again.

“What—”

He kissed her. 

It was too quick, but so satisfying despite the circumstance, her lips and hair so soft. She didn’t pull away, and he felt a small hand on his cheek, trailing down to his neck. He had to break it off.

“What?”

She didn’t look displeased, only confused. He licked his lips and spoke rapidly.

“You can’t go, because it’s a date.”

“A date?”

“Yes,” he continued, eyes darting between the door and the Doctor’s small face still in his hands, “It’s a date, and I can’t have you go on a date, because I’m—I’m jealous! Simple as that. I’m a normal, jealous, human man who likes you and doesn’t want you to go sit romantically on a sandy, windy beach with someone else.”

He hoped she believed his half-lie.

“Wait, the picnic is a date?”

“Yeah…did you not know that?”

She clearly didn’t. Her eyes flashed disappointment.

“I thought Henry and I were friends.”

“Human men are like that.”

She looked quizzically up at him.

“And you?”

He opened his mouth to answer, the words about to be just as surprising to him as to her. He never got that far. He sniffed the air.

“Is something burning?”

She looked deep into his eyes as he stared in hers, and they both knew.

“The waffle!” they cried simultaneously.

They sprinted for the waffle iron. The batter was black, oozing out of it, and the whole misshapen unit was smoking terribly. The Doctor unplugged it as the Master grabbed it with his bare hands. He ran it to the front door as the Doctor swung it open.

The Master dumped the disaster unceremoniously on the front path. They both stood there coughing, looking at the remains of breakfast.

“I stopped watching it,” the Doctor said, with a hint of guilt.

He didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh or cry at her stupid, simple statement.

“Hi,” sounded a strong, proper voice, “I’m still here.”

They both looked past the charred waffle carcass to Henry. He gave a small wave. The Doctor took a deep breath.

“Sorry, Henry,” she announced flatly, “Can’t go out today. Too much to do. Stars aren’t aligned. You understand.”

The Master could see her holding her breath as they waited for his response. Henry stared blankly at her for a moment, and then gave a tense, polite smile.

“Of course. Another time then.”

He glanced slowly and curiously between the two of them before turning away. Despite his fake smile, the man was displeased. He left, his feet crunching rhythmically on the gravel.

The Master tried to ignore the creeping feeling that their Henry troubles had just begun.

\--

She’d hardly touched her pop tart or coffee. They sat in silence at the table. He knew what was coming but he didn’t have answers for her, whether in this sham of a relationship or their real one.

“Why—” she began.

“Don’t.”

He couldn’t help the coldness. She confused him, and either he swallowed it all down or he let the rage and pain and love consume him. There was no in between. He forced himself to look at her. She was looking at him, but something was off.

She was staring beyond him. He twisted around to see what was in her line of sight. It had to be the fireplace mantle, the one with—

His throat grew tight, and his hearts beat out a warning in his chest.

“Jane…”

He was too late.

“I think I’m going to fix that clock on the mantle today,” she said distantly, to no one in particular.

She rose and crossed to the gold and silver clock encased in engraved wood. He followed. She gently removed it from the mantle, but he placed a hand on top.

“Not yet,” he requested, searching her eerily blank face, “You don’t have to.”

She nodded solemnly.

“Don’t you think it’s time, though?” she asked him, without really asking him, “Can’t keep a broken clock around forever. Especially one a beautiful as this.”

She let her fingers trace the clock face and the complicated design in the wood. He brought his other hand under the clock, cupping her hand that was already there. He gently pressed the hand on top into hers.

“No,” he shook his head, the fear churning inside him.

He didn’t like that fear, didn’t like who he became with it swirling around inside him.

“It’s time,” she insisted, “Trust me.”

He licked his lips, shaking his head more violently this time.

“No,” he said forcefully, “You do this, and you won’t like the outcome, Jane.”

“Give me the clock, Master.”

“We’re not there yet!” He couldn’t help but raise his voice.

She didn’t flinch, only stared him down with those burning, ever changing eyes.

“We’re not where?”

She was going to learn the truth before the day was up, and her hatred of him would flood back into every cell in her body anyway.

“You’re not going to believe any of this, but we know each other.” He sandwiched her hands and the clock tightly between his own. “We’ve known each other for longer than you believe you’ve been alive. But we are not _this._ We’re not even friends. We’re so far past that. And when you open that thing up—” His voice broke, and he couldn’t help it. “You’re going to remember everything I’ve done to you. You’ll remember just how much you _despise_ me.” He wanted to wipe the tears from his face but his hands were caught. “It’s not fair to you. I shouldn’t even be here. But I am…and I am asking you. Don’t.”

Through his blurred vision he could see her staring up at him, staring up with the empathy she poured into every living thing that deserved care and dignity in its life.

“That doesn’t…that doesn’t make sense,” she responded, her voice speeding up as she tried to puzzle this out, “You’re here, and you’re annoying, but I don’t hate you. How could I hate you? I only just met you. In fact, I—”

She stopped, eyes scanning his face. She freed her hands from his, passing the clock off to him. The same small hands found the rough sides of his face. He closed his eyes and leaned into them. This moment would only spell disaster in their future, but he let himself have it.

“Jane, don’t…” he whispered half-heartedly.

She pressed her lips against his, quieting him. She deepened it, and suddenly he didn’t care what he would lose, he only wanted to be closer, closer to her and the warmth and hope she radiated. He wanted his hands in her hair, wrapped around her.

He dropped the clock.


	4. beginning

Getting her memories back was like regeneration lite. Information plowed into her brain at full speed, fireworks burst through her veins, galaxies collided inside her burning skin. A thousand little deaths and rebirths, all happened, all at once, in a body whose every atom fought to stay together. Sometimes it was like someone dumped 27 energy drinks into her system all at one, sometimes it felt like she’d drunk 27 ginger beers.

The first sensation she was aware of was the thick rug.

It wasn’t her grandmother’s, like she’d been absolutely sure of moments before. It had come with the fully furnished rental house and probably had never been cleaned. 

She went to push herself to her feet, but the room was spinning. She let herself fall back onto the soft floor. While her body was still catching up, her mind was fully awake.

He was here.

She rolled over but couldn’t see him.

“Master!” she called out, but there was no response.

Finally, she tried again and was able to shove herself to her feet. She swung her head around the small cottage, but he wasn’t there. She could still feel the kiss on her lips, and the memories of the past few days ran through her mind on an endless loop.

He was here, and she was here, and for a brief period they’d managed to coexist.

And then Henry happened. She was still trying to place if she knew his face and unsettling, calculating smile. She had no memory of him, but something about him had triggered her to break the clock and return to her rightful self. She just wasn’t sure what.

The world was stabilizing, but her anxiety was only growing. Where was the Master? She desperately needed to find him. Maybe if he was in her sight again, she could work out what this all meant.

He wasn’t in the bedroom, the bathroom, the backyard. She tore out the front door, through the garden, and to the beach.

“Maaaaaster!” she bellowed again.

A small figure partly down the beach turned at the sound of her voice. It was him, it had to be. The figure began to run. She raced after him. It didn’t take long for her to gain on him, as she ran in the moderately packed surf, and he shuffled along in the dry sand.

“Master!” She shouted after him weakly, as running took up all her wind.

He didn’t stop. Finally, she was close enough. She grabbed the back of his jacket, slowing him to the point where she could throw her entire body weight at him. They collapsed into the sand. His arms flailed wildly, trying to push her away.

“Stop it,” she hissed at him, capturing the arms so he would stop hitting her, “Why—why are you running?”

He paused, staring up at her with those watery brown eyes. He laughed.

“Why would I wait around for you to punish me?”

“What?”

His face contorted into a snarl.

“Don’t you remember the last few days? I kissed you. You kissed me.”

He let his head flop into the sand.

“Yeah, I remember,” she told him. Everything from the past few days was vivid as could be in her mind and heart. Jane’s feelings were a part of her too, so clear and pure in the murkiness and darkness that was the rest of their relationship.

“I remember you cooking for me,” she continued, tightening her grip on his wrists when he tried to struggle, “And walking on the beach and arguing with me and holding me when I couldn’t sleep.”

The Master rolled his eyes.

“Ugh, oh god,” he spat at her, “Do you have to say it all out loud like that? I have a reputation.”

She released his hands suddenly, pushing herself off him, and sitting back in the sand. She needed distance between them. Her memories were back, but suddenly she didn’t know what was real anymore.

“That’s just it,” she blurted out to him across the beach, “Did you mean any of that? Was it all just some sick game because I didn’t know?”

He chuckled. He sat up and leaned towards her.

“Not telling you,” he taunted.

She felt her hand clench at her side. This was why they could never coexist. Vulnerability, love, care, it all just became a weapon or a weakness in their experienced hands. She resisted the urge to lunge at him and just scrambled to her feet.

“You were right,” she bit back, staring down at his small, pathetic form, “This is why I despise you. Five minutes ago you were sobbing because you were afraid we’d just go right back to _this._ Well, guess what, you were right. Congratulations.”

She turned to walk back down the beach. She was vaguely aware that he had found his feet and was following her, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe he was finally at a loss for words.

They were almost back to the house when he spoke.

“It wasn’t fair to hurt you when you didn’t know.”

She froze, pivoting back to him. Confusion had properly morphed into anger.

“Wasn’t fair? Well, guess what,” she spat, “You hurt me anyway.”

He opened his mouth to protest. A shot rang out, whizzing over their heads and just missing them.

“Jane—Doctor—get down!”

It was his turn to tackle her, and he brought them both flat to the grass. The Doctor twisted her head to the house and could see Henry standing in the garden, laser rifle in hand.

“I told you not to go on a date with him,” the Master whispered smugly to her.

“Yeah, well you certainly had a way of stopping me,” she shot back.

Another shot whizzed by. He’d moved out of the garden and was making his way to them. The Doctor wasn’t going to wait for him to get any closer.

“Come on!”

She forced the Master off her and threw herself to her feet. She instinctually reached behind to grab his hand before barreling towards the back of the cottage. She dragged him around into her junkyard mess and shoved him next to her half-completed particle accelerator.

“Do you know who he is?” the Master asked frantically, “Please tell me that came back in addition to all the bravado and self-righteousness.”

She shook her head as she started to gather her tools.

“He’s so familiar, but I’ve got no specific memory of him.”

“Well, to be fair,” he retorted, “You do have a lot of repressed memories. Lifetimes worth actually.”

“Yes, I know!”

A shot hit one of her half-completed projects.

“Hey!”

She stood, welding torch in hand, facing down Henry, the mystery would-be date with perfect teeth and hair, as he came sauntering around the corner. He stopped when he saw her.

“Jane,” he sneered.

“Doctor, what are you doing?” the Master urged, “Get down!”

“If you’re looking for Jane, she’s moved on, mate,” she shouted at him, “It’s just me. And unfortunately for you, I know who I am. Who I really am.”

She took a confident step towards him.

“I’m the Doctor.”

The Master groaned. “Don’t tell him who you are!”

Henry shifted the gun but didn’t put it down. 

“Thanks for the update,” he said with a smirk, “Doctor.”

“Only fair you return the compliment,” she retorted, “Tell us who you are.”

“Us?” he asked, “Is that rat bastard of a roommate still with you?”

“Yes,” she snapped back, “Only he’s not a bastard, he’s my friend.”

Henry looked skeptical.

“Alright,” she conceded, “Maybe he is a little bit of a bastard.”

“You really don’t remember me?” Henry called to her.

The Doctor didn’t like this. She didn’t like when her opponent knew more than she did, and this man was stirring up something buried deep inside her.

“Well, this time I can offer you a deal, Doctor,” Henry began, “I just need one of you. You choose.”

Her eyes darted to the Master, still crouched behind the particle accelerator. He gave a half shake of his head, telling her not to even consider it.

“Need convincing?” he continued, “He’s how we found you. Someone didn’t mask their Time Lord biosignature. And it wasn’t you.”

She looked down at him again. Guilty eyes stared up at her. He started to move.

“No,” she barked to Henry, stopping the Master as well, “Neither of us go anywhere until you tell us what you want.”

Henry chuckled, and it caused her stomach to turn without warning.

“I suppose you want to know what fate you’ll be sending him to. Fine. Now, I’m only the mercenary, so don’t shoot me.”

Henry took a step forward, and she resisted the urge to step back.

“You don’t know how rare and valuable you are. My client has been looking for a Time Lord for long, long time.”

“Why?”

A whisper inside her knew what the answer was.

“They have some—for legal purposes let’s say— _research_ …that they’re looking to undertake.” 

Something inside the Doctor surged. It was anger, fear, and protectiveness all rolled into one. In the commotion in her brain flashes of a suppressed memory threatened to break through. The yellow and blue lights of the TARDIS, a stranger with cold unwelcome hands and perfect teeth, her twisting away and every cell in her body telling her to run, run, run.

She looked at the man in front her with new understanding.

“You think,” she said, every word measured, steely, and cold, “I would hand either one of us over to _that._ ”

“You don’t have a choice, dear,” he answered, the condescension layered on thick.

She clicked her tongue, which cause confusion to flicker across Henry’s face.

“You’ve made a mistake, Henry, if that even is your real name,” she explained to him with equal condescension, “I always have a choice. And if I don’t, I’ll make one.”

She bared her teeth and stared right into those compassionless eyes.

“Now, I suggest you run.”

His rifle came up, but in one swift motion she ducked and grabbed the Master, pulling him to his feet. In the far tube of her particle accelerator she jammed the welding torch, propping it up and forcing it to stay on.

“Come on,” she ordered, “Run applies to us now too.”

They fled, dodging the rifle shots. The Master matched pace beside her as they rounded the corner to the front of the cottage and kept running, heading for the road.

“So you weren’t really building a particle accelerator,” he gasped to her as they ran.

“No, I was,” she answered, “I just learned from the best. Even if you can’t make something work…”

A loud explosion echoed behind them, consuming most of the cottage, and they stopped to watch the flames and smoke billow.

“You can still blow it up,” she finished.

“And you learned that from?”

She looked at him in disbelief.

“Mythbusters.”

\--

She darted back through the TARDIS doors, clapping to turn the lights on. In seconds, she was at the console.

“What so you just blow people up now?”

He was still standing in the doorway, looking at her like she was both his oldest friend and a new and shiny toy he’d just found.

“That’s what I came to check,” she said bluntly, nodding at the console, “The energy signature from his ship is leaving orbit now. He’s alive, out to mercenary his way across the universe.”

“And that strikes a chord in you, does it?”

His curiosity had morphed into excitement. Of course her almost killing a mercenary in cold blood would leave him like a kid in a candy shop. She closed the distance between them, but halted one step above, looking down at him.

“Damn right, it does.”

Before he could speak and continue digging his hole that much deeper, she continued.

“I remembered where I recognized him from. He came here. _Into_ the TARDIS. To take me. Take me back to whatever _research_ his client was doing.”

“Why didn’t you remember him?” the Master challenged.

“Because I was afraid.”

She thought she saw his eyes soften slightly. She embellished.

“Figuring out my past…it’s not like coming back from Jane, okay. I don’t instantly remember who I was. There’s so much there that…that _hurts._ And it blocks things.”

As long as she had him there, staring silently, it all came flooding out.

“This must have hit too close—too close to everything that’s buried there—and when I activated the chameleon arch, he got buried along with it.”

She stepped down to be at his level, shoulders squared with his, open. She licked her lips and pressed on.

“I mean he _scared_ me. Scared me enough to use the chameleon arch. Scared me enough to make me want to forget who I was. Everything I am.”

That was a lot to confess, and she felt raw. One wrong word and she would bruise easily. There was a moment as the Master processed this. He shuffled his feet, placing his hands on his hips.

“Very interesting, Doc. But why are you telling me all this?”

Her eyes found his again, stable and steady.

“I thought maybe you cared.”

He started up his mocking grin.

“Don’t,” she warned.

He was still, so very still and quiet. She found herself holding her breath.

“Don’t make me say it,” he said softly.

She couldn’t help it. She smiled.

“Say what?”

He shook his head slightly, mouthing a _no_ at her. She didn’t care. It all had to have meant something.

“When I was Jane…” she began.

She trailed off, watching his eyes flit around her face. He wasn’t going to do words, not right now. That look in his eyes was familiar. Once it would’ve scared her, but now it stirred something else. Hunger.

His hand found the nape of her neck and pulled her in.

This kiss wasn’t like when she was Jane. This was that much more frenetic, with the weight of all their history behind it. His arm snaked around her waist, the other burying itself in her hair, like if they were anything less than fully tangled together she might slither away. She threw both arms over his shoulders, letting a hand wrap around the base of his neck.

When he broke off the kiss, he still didn’t let her go.

“You didn’t forget,” he whispered into her shoulder, “You forgot me, but you didn’t forget who you were. You could never forget how to be so annoying.”

She didn’t know how to respond. She felt like maybe Jane had left some of her own special brand of hope behind. She asked what burned through her mind.

“You’re coming with me, right? To see the universe?”

She felt him shift, and suddenly she was unsure, fear pooling in her gut.

“Well,” he finally responded, “Someone’s gotta stop you from accidentally lighting it all on fire.”

She squeezed him tight and finally pulled away. She could see him fighting something, maybe a smile, maybe something much more profound. She saved him from further conflict.

“Where’s your TARDIS?” she asked, bounding back up to the console.

“Not far,” he responded slowly, as if he was still processing what he’d just agreed to, “But we need to find your prepubescent friends first. They, uh, stole something from it.”

She beamed.

“Did they now? Oh, I knew they were clever. Was that how they got you to come?”

“Oh, I wanted to come,” he lied, joining her at the console.

“Sure.”

She started to set the dials, and the TARDIS groaned.

“After we pick up the fam,” she announced, stopping to point a finger at the Master, “—and don’t even think about protesting. Me and the fam, we’re a package deal.—I think we should follow Henry’s ship.”

“Is that wise?”

“When did we ever do wise?” she countered, “Besides I have some questions and unfinished business.”

And, she wanted to say but restrained herself, she felt that much better about chasing down all the unknowns in her past if he was by her side. His brown eyes watched her across the console.

“We’re not finished, Doctor.”

“Oh, I know,” she beamed up at him, clever and mischievous and hopeful, “We’re just beginning.”

She pulled the lever and sent the TARDIS spinning into the night, the fires of billions of stars burning bright above them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks everyone for reading! And sorry everyone I say I'm gonna write fluff and then a couple thousand words in they're confessing their deepest darkest feelings. But hey, still gotta have those happy endings!


End file.
